Flooding Associated with Tropical Storm Irene, 2011
Here's how our friend Peter Money phrased it, 1 September, 2011.
To Whom It May Concern:
I am a poet with a publishing office in White River Junction. From time to time I venture to the Main Street Museum, dipping below the ancient railroad bridge to walk into time past and time present. I have read and performed there, I have simply walked and stared, and I have listened and danced to others’ performances. I have admired the gumption and verve, the originality and wit, the careful curatorial assembly and culturally timely panels and community discussions.
I read with care about volunteers showing up to help the museum dig out from the river flow that had roared into the building’s belly (an old fire station, as I understand [there are fewer and fewer of these left in our states]) after “storm Irene” brought a surprising blow. I had pumped myself up, more than usual, to stroll over to The Main Street Museum to try to provide some relief: Over a shoulder I brought a child's guitar, and in a pocket I had a pro's harmonica. I was ready to support and strengthen the workers, for I had imagined the volunteers might need what poetry and music had to offer in the pause of minutes. Maybe, I planned, I’d even read from William Carlos Williams’ great poem “Paterson” (whose own Passaic Falls overflowed in Irene). Instead, crossing what had become a dust bowl street to the museum, I stood sobered by what I saw.
The Main Street Museum houses culturally significant outposts in the Upper Valley. Among them, the cartoonists’ library and a zen center. But by swift upset of weather, today the museum also houses an enormous upturned cargo container—the large ones we see on massive transportation carriers—lodged in the armpit of the museum's neighboring arched bridge, only feet away from the northeast corner of the museum itself. The sight, to say nothing of the dried and caked mud indoors, was gruesome—a war-like assault near a semi-circle of small umbrellas. I stood, a sort of zombie of my former self, writing down what I saw for the next ninety minutes. If there is something to be saved, The Main Street Museum Saves it or bids it be well. This place is heart where heart is often so hard won. Disaster has not stopped this museum’s spirited mission, but the rot of impartial weather will have consumed much of its volunteers’ energy; necessary parts of the physical space will have been compromised and the whole clean-up will surely strain a budget for an outpost that represents the keystone to this region’s most inventive and lasting central meeting place for the creative economy. No doubt, now: The Main Street Museum will need support. Yet, music and poems will animate the glass cases again soon.
Sincerely, Peter Money
Los Ríos Acuden
Amada de los ríos, combatida
por agua azul y gotas transparentes,
como un arbol de venas es tu espectro
de diosa oscura que muerde manzanas:
al despertar desnuda entonces,
eras tatuada por los ríos,
y en la altura mojada con nuevos rocíos.
Te trepidaba el agua en la cintura.
Eras de manantiales construíday te brillaban lagos en la frente. —Neruda
